


Sensory

by happypil428



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23874592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happypil428/pseuds/happypil428
Summary: You have your longtime, established favorites — a cherished lullaby, the constellation you find to be the most breathtaking in the sky, or perhaps the heavenly aroma of your go-to comfort food — but even these trivial preferences change and it’s not a surprise that yours change because of one person.Yourperson.
Relationships: Kim Wonpil/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. Sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to our sunshine, Kim Wonpil! ❤️

Stargazing is a pastime you picked up on as a child, developing a growing fondness for the hobby through the years every time you traveled back to the province with your family for Thanksgiving and Lunar New Year celebrations. You take delight in the brightness the stars exude and marvel at how their luminescence manages to reach you even from light years away. You never failed to excuse yourself after family dinners, giddy steps always leading you to the top of the nearest hill in untiring anticipation of the gorgeous sight to be beheld as if you couldn’t already point out the constellations even when blindfolded. 

It’s that longtime fondness that often brings you to the university library, wandering through the aisles and scouring through the shelves for random astronomy books that catch your eye. It’s the very same hobby that makes you lose track of time as you surrender yourself to your ever growing wonder, much like the instance you find yourself in now, except that you’re brought back to the present by the soft hum of someone in front of you.

You lift your head from your books to see your companion slightly hunched over in his seat, eyebrows furrowed as he smoothly scribbles on his music sheets. His eyes are narrowed in concentration as he minds his own business like you have been, until you softly tap on the space in between his eyebrows to smoothen the creases. He meets your gaze as you absentmindedly reach out to remove his thick, black-rimmed eyeglasses to get a clearer view of his eyes. He looks disoriented for a moment, but he senses the almost tangible adoration from you and he chuckles — he already knows what’s happening. It’s not the first time, after all, that you’ve found yourself lost in Wonpil’s eyes.

He flips the pages of his music book shut, keeps his pencil, and rests his chin on the heels of his palms to hold your stare. He sends you a lazy grin. “Like the view?”

You almost break your gaze away from his as an embarrassed laugh spills from your lips and you feel your cheeks grow warmer, but the time you’ve spent with Wonpil has taught you to hold your own. You nod unabashedly, smiling. “What’s not to like?”

While the scenic sight of the stars still unfailingly manage to leave you breathless, you have come to adore a different set of galaxies more, one captured in deep midnight orbs that curve into crescents whenever they catch your eyes, accompanied by a nose wrinkling and pearly whites appearing. In front of you is your very own Cassiopeia, with every fleck of color in his irises minutely mirroring the celestial bodies of your past, now embodied by the boy in front of you to be your present and your future. In front of you is your very own Andromeda, one that secures you in your place yet drowns you at the same time until you do not know anymore whether you’re falling or you’re floating, wandering but not lost in his tranquil depths and calming warmth.

His gaze ignites a familiar warmth in you, one you always feel when his smile is what greets you in the morning and welcomes you back to sleep at night with every sunrise and moonrise. It’s the same affection that you feel blooming inside when his eyes meet yours and only yours when he plays the keys on stage and he sings the parts he’s written especially for you. Your reminiscing brings you back to the moments when he keeps his attentive gaze pinned on you as you tell him about your day and to the times when he makes sure to hold your stare as he confesses his love to you like it’s the first time you’re hearing it. You find yourself drowning even further when you’re reminded of how his eyes unfailingly catch yours no matter how far apart amidst the sea of people surrounding, and you realize that the heavenly bodies make you feel weightless and insignificant but your very own star secures you in your place — right beside his. 

Kim Wonpil is your universe, your sun and your moon, your gravity, and you wouldn’t even dream of straying away from his orbit.


	2. Sound.

The wind carries with it the faint, distant notes of a sweet, lyrical tune as if it were a magnet that brings you to your feet in search of its source. You weave yourself through the crowd of weekend park goers, in between leisurely strolling couples, casually sauntering teenagers, and giddily dashing toddlers, closer and closer to the sound until your ears can clearly make out the familiar melody of Maybe, one of your favorites among Yiruma’s famous compositions. Your feet bring you to the central gazebo of the neighborhood park where an old man calmly sways along in his seat as he elegantly runs his fingers through the keys with eyes closed to smoothly transition to River Flows in You. You are reminded of glorious, warm summer days spent in your grandparents’ abode in the suburbs when you would eagerly teach yourself to play the instrument, intrigued by the sleek grand piano sitting in all its majesty in the living room, standing out from the traditional elements that make up the rest of the house. 

You are brought out of your nostalgic reverie when a smooth, calming voice quietly whispers, “I knew you’d be here.”

Your face turns to meet the owner of the voice, watching a knowing smile grow on his handsome face. He chuckles, causing you to breathe out a giggle of your own, amused to learn time and time again how he knows you like the back of his hand. “Did you take long looking for me?”

Wonpil shakes his head, wrapping his arms securely around your waist as you lean your head on his shoulder and hook a finger through one of his belt loops. “Nope, the moment I saw you weren’t on the bench, I knew you’d be here at the gazebo watching someone play the piano.”

You rest your chin on his arm to look up at him. “Will you be able to find me wherever I go?”

He hums in contemplation. “I bet I could, but you know I can’t make it long when you’re too far away from me.”

You feel a satisfied grin make its way on your face, lovingly observing him mirror your expression of bliss. His voice is your favorite melody, his words the lyrics to the harmony you’d never grow tired of hearing. Every lilt of his voice is laced with care and adoration, each word affectionately and clearly spelling out “I love you” in every way that he possibly can.

“How are you so good at this game?”

“Text me when you get home.”

“I tried making you breakfast!”

“You’re going to do great today!”

It was as if your ears were made to tune out the rest of the world and focus on his voice and as if his lips were made to tenderly declare his devotion to you. His voice holds power yet carries with it so much affection at the same time that even when you wish his voice doesn’t have so much an effect on you, you are certain that you would follow him to the ends of the world if he only asked. 

You contentedly watch together the old pianist gracefully blend the notes to Love Me, another of Yiruma’s hits. Wonpil seizes the moment to stare admiringly at your figure humming along before he whispers, as if he were afraid to break the peaceful atmosphere, “Want to go to that restaurant nearby that I told you about?”

You nod enthusiastically in agreement, following his footsteps. “Yes, please. I’m starving.”

You don’t mind walking away from the sound that captivated you moments ago, for his is the voice that wakes you up and sets you to motion in the morning and calms you down and lulls you back to slumber at night. His is the only rhythm that sets your pace, the guide to your every spin and step. His is the only melody that holds the beautiful promise of a future, one that you eagerly hope to become your everyday. His is the only music whose notes carry your yesterday, today, and tomorrow. 

If Kim Wonpil’s voice were the ocean, you wouldn’t mind drowning in it everyday.


	3. Scent.

Footstep after footstep feels lighter as you tread eagerly, a serene smile whipping from left to right as you take in your surroundings. The grin never leaves your face as you take a deep inhale, delighting in the different aromas wafting in the air and mingling to become one delectable fragrance drifting straight to the stomachs of famished passersby. One particular scent has you walking towards a group of friends huddled together, each enjoying their own warm bowls, and you stand on your tiptoes and look past their shoulders to see the old lady in the stall deftly prepare her next serving of noodle soup. You then saunter to a neighbor stall from which the familiar, pungent aroma of kimchi stew drifts, and you fondly look back on memories of your mother serving your comfort food — be it on holidays, when you’re sick or whenever you crave for it. You make a mental note to finish the side dishes she sent you so you can ask again for more.

You’re about to settle for a couple of warm roasted potatoes to quell your hunger from all the food sightseeing, but you catch sight of the recognizable figure of someone nearby clutching the strap of his body bag and rocking back and forth on his heels. You make a beeline for him, and, as if he senses you coming, he turns just in time as you giddily launch yourself on him, arms enveloping his figure and resting on the small of his back.

Wonpil chuckles as he is caught slightly off guard, his arms likewise securing themselves automatically around your waist. “Woah, hey there.”

You giggle against his hoodie, voice muffled as you slowly breathe his scent in and sigh contentedly. “Hi.”

He rests his chin gently on the top of your head and asks, “Are you okay?”

You nod, nuzzling even further against his chest. “Yup, I’m perfectly fine. I just missed you.”

Wonpil frowns. “But you saw me just yesterday.”

You lift your head to rest your chin on his chest and hold him close as you stare up at him. “Exactly.”

He laughs amusedly. “I missed you, too.”

You stay in each other’s embrace, in your own precious, peaceful bubble, blissfully unaware of how much time has passed or how many people have walked by, enveloped in his scent that brings the soothing serenity you always find yourself going back to. You take a deep inhale in and are hit with the calming blend of Wonpil’s natural, musky scent, the muted fragrance of the fabric conditioner you both use, and faint notes of grapefruit, incense, and amber from his perfume, all lingering hints of that blend that has come to remind you of everything Wonpil is — warm, tender, comforting. Your sanctuary.

In a wave of nostalgia, you relive your younger days when you would make your way through the door in an excited dash as you smell your dinner served in a steaming, hearty bowl of stew, but while you know your mom’s cooking will still have you on your feet in no time, you recognize that the scent you’re basking in and that which wraps you in a tender cradle is what you now regard to be the scent of your solace. His scent brings you at peace and reassures you that he is your place of comfort, your safe space — that in a world that is fierce and with the turbulent storms that rage within you, Wonpil offers himself as a haven that allows you to breathe and rest. 

Perhaps it is with this sentiment that you often ask him to delay bringing his hoodies to the laundry so they don’t lose that distinct scent that reminds you of him, in the very same way he doesn’t often wash his favorite blanket. On certain days, you pretend that it’s by some absentminded habit that you put on one of his shirts, but he’s recently admitted he knows you do it purposely and that he doesn’t mind because he thinks his shirts look perfect on you anyways. And what better proof could there be that he knows how you feel than him giving you a tiny bottle of his perfume for you to spritz on days when you are apart so you don’t miss him too much.

Wonpil loosens his grip around you and holds up a tiny plastic bag. “Let’s go. I bought these sweet potatoes while waiting for you.”

Just one whiff of Kim Wonpil and you know — you’re finally home. 


	4. Touch.

Contrary to the rest of your peers, you flourish during the rainy season as though you were a tree that has made it past the drought to savor the cooling blessing from the heavens. While the humidity and melancholy the shower brings dampen the enthusiastic, vigorous pace of the city and set everything to slow motion, you bask in the feeling of rejuvenation as if life were being breathed back into the earth again with the promise of a fresh start at the end of the pouring. You reach out your arm from the cover provided by the overdoor canopy extending from the facade of the university auditorium you exited from moments ago and turn your palm heavenwards, humming contentedly at the sensation of raindrops landing one after another on your palm. 

Your thoughts are pleasantly interrupted by a hand clasping yours hanging limp by your side, a simple touch that constantly makes your day. You revel in the feeling of his fingers weaving themselves in between yours as you wonder how the twining together of seemingly insignificant, slender limbs of skin, muscle, and bones can make you feel as whole and complete as you do now. 

He sends a dazzling grin your way. “Have you been waiting long?”

You shake your head, feeling a hum of satisfaction bubbling on your lips as Wonpil slowly swings your arms together and runs his thumb back and forth across the smooth expanse of the back of your hand. You can’t help but bring your clasped hands up to your sight and turn them left and right, up and down, in awe at how you can’t seem to find where you end and where he starts that you may as well be one person. Everytime his fingers dance gracefully with yours until your hands are in each other’s embrace, you feel the need to thank whichever deity responsible for the design of human hands — the gaps allow the hands to be deft and creative, just as how Wonpil’s fingers bring to existence the most beautiful melodies to grace the world, but when two hands meet it’s as if the spaces were meant to be filled.

Wonpil searches your countenance, hoping to be privy to your thoughts that leave a pensive but calm smile on your face, when he remembers to bring out the Stitch keychain that reminded him of you in the university bookstore. He releases his grip on your hand to rummage through his backpack only to be met by a faint whine. He glances up at you curiously and sees your gaze pinned on his hand clutching the strap of his bag, a pout gracing your lips. Then he understands and abandons the trinket in his bag for your hand, thinking to himself about how he can surprise you with it later anyway.

You miss the way he chuckles in amusement as he observes how your fingers quickly lace themselves through his again despite being apart for merely seconds as though his hands were your lifeline. On second thought, you muse, maybe his hands _are_ your lifeline. 

You've lost count of the times his hands ran up and down your back to soothe you when you're hunched over the toilet after a particularly wild night out, when they cup your cheeks before he plants a gentle peck of encouragement on your forehead as you drift off to slumber in his embrace or when they firmly grasp yours as though he were afraid he'd lose you in the crowd. You can't imagine what your life would possibly be like without his arms that affectionately rest on your shoulder as he pulls you against his side everytime he introduces you as his or the arms slung securely around your waist that can't seem to let you go especially on cold, lazy mornings. You crave for his fingers that fondly card themselves through your hair as you cuddle on the couch during movie date nights or his fingers that tap gently against your skin during unguarded moments as if he were absentmindedly connecting himself to you even in the simplest ways he can. 

You are convinced that if ever there were heaven here on earth, it would be no other place than in Kim Wonpil’s arms.


	5. Taste.

The dull sound of metal lightly hitting against metal repeatedly is accompanied by the smooth, low notes of the jazz music you left at a low volume in the living room. Your arm continues to work in circles with a whisk in one hand while the other arm locks a bowl carefully against your torso. You grin at your creation, watching the tiny, concentrated dot of red swirl into the mixture and turn the batter into a soft baby pink. You are almost certain that your mouth is watering at the sight as you are reminded of your go-to favorite macarons, closing your eyes and sighing as you imagine biting into its pillowy, delicate shell and savoring the rich, creamy filling. You’ve been craving for the said treat, but your boyfriend, ever the frugal one in the relationship, suggested making your own batch instead of bringing home your third dozen of the confection from the dainty pastry store a block away. 

A calm voice lightly prods, a smile evident in the lilt of his tone. “Care to share?”

You look up at Wonpil seated at the counter, his legs swaying slightly as he shifts in his seat and curiously peeks at your bowl of pink, creamy goodness. 

You look away and pout, “No, Pil, you’ll definitely have some once I’m done baking.”

He pays your words no attention though as he sneakily dips a finger into your batter and hastily smears a good portion of it on the tip of your nose. You hear his silly hiccup laugh resonating in the kitchen as you stare cross-eyed in mild shock at the blob of pink at the center of your vision, and you shift your gaze to see an impish grin resting on his lips.

Before you can grab the whisk in hopes of sprinkling some of the filling on him as payback, Wonpil is quick to wrap his arms around your waist and his legs around your thighs, securing you against him as he continues to laugh. He leans down to place a soft peck on your lips for good measure, leaving some of the filling on his nose to match yours, and you scoff at his attempt at escaping from your wrath. “Mister, if you think —”

Your words are effectively cut off when Wonpil’s arms shift on the small of your back to tighten his embrace around you as he tenderly brings his lips on yours again but in a savored kiss this time. 

His lips caress your own in a soft embrace, nose nudging yours as you tilt your head to return the kiss. Your hands trail up his chest and around his shoulders to rest against the base of his neck, pulling him in even closer to chase the giddy lightheadedness that you crave for and that which only Wonpil can give. His lips part with small pants and you feel it’s as if he’s breathing life into you, the very reason you’ve formed a habit of pulling him in closer when parting for air to taste more of him again. 

You feel the butterflies in your stomach flutter faster and the sparks on your skin grow warmer when his tongue prods your lip, and you let him in and allow the sweetness to overwhelm your senses. His tongue dances with yours as his hands trace a path up your arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, to caress your cheeks in his palms as he takes the time to alternately leave gentle licks and soft sucks against your lips. You can’t help but smile into the kiss, left at awe at how he manages to make each kiss sweeter than the one before.

You wake up and fall asleep to hints of mint brought by Wonpil’s lips murmuring sweet nothings against yours when you part ways in the morning and fall back into his arms at night. Even Americano is sweet on his lips during kisses that are slow and savored when he comforts you after a long, hard day. You look forward to the lingering taste of his favorite strawberry milk from brief, encouraging pecks born out of the habit of affection. You’ve come to delight in the taste of beer in his kiss when teeth and tongue clash and all he wishes to do is feel your lips on his and your skin underneath his fingers. 

You slowly pull away from the kiss and rest your forehead against his, grinning as you appreciate his puffy lips and the dazed look in his eyes. 

You whisper, “Did you buy a lip balm? You taste like strawberries right now.”

He bites his lower lip guiltily, and you laugh, understanding before he even says a word. “I sneaked some from the filling when you weren’t looking.”

Kim Wonpil is enough sweetness to last you a lifetime for he is the saccharine rush that won’t ever let you crash.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think! :) 
> 
> [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.me/happypil428)  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/happypil428)


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